by M. J. Scott
And tonight, the stakes were high. He didn’t think literally stepping on the toes of the crown princess was likely to win him any friends. So he concentrated and tried to ignore the part of him that kept looking for glimpses of Sophie’s red dress through the crowd.
By the time the seemingly never-ending set of dances came to an end, he had no idea where Sophie was. He hadn’t thought it would be possible to lose anyone wearing a dress that color in a crowd, but he’d underestimated just how many people were filling the ballroom. But he could hardly charge into the mass of people in search of her. He might not have spent much time dancing at balls, but he’d spent plenty of time observing them and absorbing the protocol. To abandon the crown princess instead of escorting her back to the dais where presumably her husband, not to mention the emperor, would be waiting would be foolish.
If the encounter with the Anglion delegation had shown him anything it was that they might well need the goodwill of the emperor. Because it seemed goodwill from Anglion might be in short supply.
He escorted the princess through the crowd, pretending he didn’t notice the guards who immediately began trailing them at a discreet distance once they stepped off the dance floor. In the Anglion court, the guards were present but they rarely stayed so close to their charges.
What was happening in Aristides’ court that would mean the members of the royal family had to be more closely protected? Was it the presence of the Anglions they didn’t trust or someone—or something—else? Of course, Stefan and Eloisa had only ever had to worry about threats from their own nobility—and it had been a long time since there’d been a movement against the crown—and countrymen. They didn’t rule a whole continent, or the many countries within it. They didn’t have subjects who’d become subjects by force. Not in recent memory, anyway.
The princess murmured something polite to him as they reached the dais and then took herself off to stand with her ladies-in-waiting, who immediately clustered around her and began a whispered conversation. Which left him unsure as to what to do next. Looking for Sophie seemed the obvious choice.
He turned back to face the swathe of people, scanning again for a flash of bright red. Nothing. Next time he’d ask the Designys to provide her with a pair of the high-heeled shoes he’d seen some of the women wearing. That way he might have a better chance of spotting Sophie.
A servant offered a tray and he took a glass of something that resembled the wine Henri had made them try earlier. It had been pleasant enough and not overly strong. The last thing he needed was to overindulge.
He sipped it and watched the crowd, trying to see if there was a path he could take back to the dance floor that might contain fewer people.
It was an impossible task. The room was full to bursting no matter which direction he looked. After a minute or so, he gave up and just headed in a straight line from where he stood. He hadn’t gotten very far when Barron Deepholt stepped into his path.
“Lieutenant Mackenzie,” the barron said. “A word.”
Cameron paused. He didn’t think it was likely that the barron had anything promising to say to him. And now the man was just being rude, using his military rank and not his title. “I believe that’s Lord Scardale to you, Rigby,” he said, straightening his shoulders. He couldn’t remember if the barron had ever given Cameron leave to use his personal name, but if the barron was going to play at forgetting the correct courtesies, so would he. After all, Cameron was brother to an erl and husband to a woman who also outranked the barron by wont of her position in the succession.
The barron scowled but nodded. “Lord Scardale. Forgive me. In all this excitement, I had forgotten about your sudden elevation.”
Unlikely, but Cameron let it pass. Standing there trading insults with the man wasn’t going to get the conversation over and done with any faster. “What do you want, milord?”
“I thought perhaps it wise if we spoke alone. Man to man, so to speak.”
Cameron lifted a brow at him. He didn’t know Deepholt that well. The man was maybe ten years younger than Cameron’s father had been and hadn’t been one of the late erl’s group of confidants. And apparently the man shared the not uncommon attitude among male courtiers that women were not as capable as men. He’d never quite understood it, not when there was evidence in history about just what a royal witch was capable of. Eloisa wasn’t the first queen to hold the Anglion throne. Not to mention that many of the men at court were married to royal witches.
Did the barron really think Sophie was just another silly lady-in-waiting who menfolk could pat on the head and send out of the room while they did business? He couldn’t deny he’d met a few less than bright women at court, but Sophie wasn’t one of them. And he’d met far more stupid men than women in his time at the palace.
“Is there more to discuss? You delivered the queen’s message earlier.” He moved away toward the outer wall of the room. The crowd was slightly thinner there. He didn’t really want an audience for this conversation, even if the barron seemed to have forgotten just where they were.
The barron followed him, still looking displeased. They came to a halt again maybe thirty yards from the wall, where more of the black-clad Imperial Guard were stationed, standing at statue-like attention at twenty-yard intervals.
It was quieter there, but not by much. Out of necessity, the barron stood very close. The smell of sweat and heavy spiced cologne floated to Cameron’s nose. It wasn’t an altogether pleasant combination.
“I was hoping that you might be faster to see sense,” the barron said. “You cannot be happy here in this . . . goddess-forsaken place, cut off from your service and your oaths.”
“I believe the goddess has a strong following here,” Cameron said mildly. “There’s quite a sizeable temple not far from the palace. Perhaps His Imperial Majesty would allow you to attend a service there.”
The barron shuddered. “No, thank you. Whatever they practice here, it isn’t the path the goddess set for us. Not when they allow those . . . creatures to move freely among them.”
Well, that was clear enough. What was less clear was what the man actually wanted. And how Cameron could steer him back to that topic. He shouldn’t have mentioned the goddess. Not so soon after the Anglions had encountered their first sanctii. It was just as well that there didn’t seem to be any more of them at the ball. Perhaps it wasn’t the done thing. He made a neutral sort of noise, hoping the man might take it for agreement and return to the point.
The barron toyed with the heavy sapphire ring on his finger but before he could speak, a shortish man dressed in gray so dark it was close to black stepped out of the crowd to the barron’s left.
For a moment, seeing the gleam of sweat on the man’s forehead, Cameron thought the man must be drunk, but then he caught the glint of metal near the man’s hand.
Knife.
He didn’t stop to think, acting on instinct as he grabbed the barron, pulling him out of reach. The man in gray snarled and raised his arm, the knife clearly visible as he feinted at Cameron.
Fuck.
The blade was a good eight inches long. With a nasty hooked tip. And Cameron didn’t have so much as a dagger on him. He dodged the first swing, heard a scream from someone in the crowd but didn’t move his gaze from the attacker.
Who came at him again, slashing in rapid succession.
Cameron dodged and rolled, aiming a punch at the man’s knee as he moved past him. Weaponless against a knife, the best plan was to try and bring his attacker down, hope he’d lose his grip on the weapon. The attacker staggered but kept his footing. Cameron glanced around. People were falling back, forming a space around the two men. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of black moving rapidly through the crowd.
The guard, he hoped.
But before he had time to think anything more, the knife slashed again and he was stumbling back, narrowly avoiding the blade.
One of the guards reached his side, drawing a sword
. Cameron started to fall back but a sanctii appeared out of nowhere, wrenching the blade from the guard’s hand before backhanding the guard so hard the man flew several feet backward before crumpling to the ground.
The sanctii bellowed something, and then Cameron found himself facing a demon with a sword.
“Cameron, no!”
He heard Sophie calling his name. Then, just as the demon lifted the sword, another larger sanctii appeared—its coloring darker than the first—closed its massive arms around the first, and then they both vanished.
Chapter 11
Which left Cameron blinking in surprise at the man in gray.
Who lunged forward again with renewed ferocity. The appearance of sanctii fighting had apparently turned the crowd from half-wary to panicked. People were fleeing the fight, shoving and swearing to make their way. Through a gap in the heaving mass of bodies, he spotted one of the groups of low tables and chairs.
Finally. Something he could use. He reached for the ley line, found it with an effort, and sent the chair winging its way through the air, where it hit the man in gray in the back of the head and sent him slumping to the ground.
To his right, a flash of red. Sophie. He turned to see her fighting to stay where she stood against the tide of people trying to get away.
Two more black-clad guards appeared to Cameron’s left, one of them dropping to his knees beside the man in gray. He felt briefly for a pulse on the man’s neck.
Cameron turned back to Sophie, only to see a sanctii—the first one, he thought, rather than the second one—blink back into life only a few feet from the barron, who was standing frozen not far from where Sophie stood.
Goddess, no. The sanctii, whoever was controlling it, could not be allowed to target her. He had no idea how one tamed a demon, no idea how water magic worked, but he did know blood magic. And he knew the bond he and Sophie shared should make him stronger.
Acting entirely on instinct, he reached for the sense of her, and then used the answering surge of power to send the table flying toward the sanctii with even more force than he’d used with the chair. The power—Sophie’s shared power—rushed through him like a flood, but the demon was too fast. It vanished and then reappeared just a foot or so away from him, reaching for him, fist swinging.
He lurched backward and the blow only grazed him, but it still felt as though he’d been hit in the ribs by a small tree. He stumbled, keeping his feet by some small miracle, and ducked by instinct as another blow came his way.
But before it could connect, Venable du Laq was there, yelling something in the rough language Henri used with Martius. The sanctii snarled at her, pivoting to lunge toward her. She snapped her hand in a strange gesture and another sanctii appeared. It had a slash of black across its eyes. Not the same creature who’d helped him before. It leaped toward the other demon, and then Henri was there as well, Martius joining the fray. The two sanctii both grasped the one who’d attacked. It struggled against them frantically and Cameron thought for a moment it was going to get away. But Venable du Laq made another one of those odd gestures and the captive sanctii froze as if turned to stone. Martius and the venable’s sanctii looked at each other, and then all three demons vanished.
Cameron stood frozen, staring at the place where the demons had been, still geared for a fight that seemed to be over. Then guards in black surrounded him, several of them barking orders at once. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sophie being hustled away by Henri. He stepped forward, only to be stopped by a guard’s hand on his chest.
He glared at the man. “I am going to my wife.”
The guard shook his head. “You must stay here, my lord.”
Stay? When there were sanctii battling in the middle of a ballroom? No. He needed to get to Sophie. He took another half step.
“Please, Lord Scardale. Just for a moment.” A woman’s hand on his arm.
He blinked, coming back a little from the battle haze and the thumping roar of his pulse in his ears. Then he focused on the woman in the blue dress.
“Venable du Laq,” he said. “I wish to go to my wife.”
“Soon,” she said. “But the guards will have questions.” She glanced in the direction Henri and Sophie had taken. “So do I.”
“Questions? The man tried to attack the ambassador,” Cameron said. He looked around but couldn’t see Barron Deepholt anywhere nearby. Perhaps he, too, had fled.
“And you thought you’d stop him?” Another guard, a tall man with dark hair just turning gray at the temples and a blaze of gold and silver insignia on his uniform collar, stepped forward.
“Major.” He nodded at Imogene, then turned an inquiring expression on Cameron.
“It seemed a good idea at the time,” Cameron said, trying to absorb the information that Venable du Laq was not just in the Imperial Guard but a major.
“The room is full of guards,” the man pointed out.
“The closest of whom was nearly thirty feet away. People can get very dead in the time it takes a man to travel that distance. Particularly through a crowd like this.”
“I see.” The guard studied Cameron a moment.
“You should be grateful,” Venable du Laq said sharply. “His actions won Ikarus and me sufficient time to get close enough to contain that sanctii. Maybe you do not think one man could have done much damage before your men could act, Colonel, but believe me, one sanctii can do plenty.”
Her tone was sharp. As the colonel outranked her, he wasn’t sure what that said about the relationship between the emperor’s mages and his regular guards. Or maybe Venable du Laq was just exercising her position as a duquesse to speak to almost anybody however she pleased.
“I am well aware, Major.” The colonel bowed shallowly at Venable du Laq, which only confirmed that the woman’s competing ranks complicated the protocol, then turned to Cameron again.
“Thank you,” he said, clicking his heels together and performing another precise bow. “I am in your debt, M—”
“Lord Scardale!” Louis burst through the edge of the crowd. People had started to drift closer again now that the immediate danger was over.
Either Illvyans didn’t scare easily or they were more interested in knowing what exactly had occurred than in safety.
“Are you all right, my lord?” Louis asked, brows wrinkling nervously as he looked Cameron up and down.
“Lord Scardale,” repeated the colonel thoughtfully. “I see.” He stepped back a little, scrutinizing Cameron with eyes so brown they were close enough to black. “Well, as I said, my lord, thank you for your assistance.”
“Colonel Perrine, I must escort Lord Scardale back to his wife. I assume your men have things under control here?”
“Yes, Louis. You may tell His Imperial Majesty that all will be in order shortly.”
“I’m sure he’ll be asking you to explain it to him yourself,” Louis said in an aggrieved tone, as though he was personally blaming the colonel for ruining what had to be an evening planned to within an inch of its life. Cameron felt a twinge of sympathy as the colonel’s face went professionally neutral. He’d had to explain a fuckup like this a time or two to his superiors—though never, thankfully, to King Stefan or Eloisa—and it was never pleasant. Having that superior be Aristides de Lucien wasn’t likely to improve the situation.
“Colonel,” he said, aping the man’s bow. He would have felt more at home saluting but he wasn’t sure how Illvyans did that. He would have to ask Venable Marignon. “Perhaps we will meet again.”
* * *
Everyone was jabbering in Illvyan around her and Sophie couldn’t understand more than one word in five. Nor did she know where Cameron was. A fact that made her want to scream.
She could sense him in an odd way, like a tingling aftershock from the power they’d shared. She knew he was somewhere nearby, but right at that moment, nearby was not reassuring enough.
The dais where she stood with Henri and the emperor was surrounded by a solid
ring of imperial guards. There would be no chance of breaking through to go and find her husband.
On the other side of the dais, the four Anglions stood. The barron was pale and sweating. Sir Harold and James were trying to get him to sit and drink a glass of something one of the servants had fetched. They spoke in low, urgent voices, but between the heated conversation Henri and Aristides were having and the far louder than before panic-tinged babbling of all the nobles still present in the ballroom, she couldn’t make their words out.
She was ready to step in front of Henri and demand he speak Anglish to her when several of the guards moved aside and Louis, who had been sent scurrying away from the emperor’s side when she and Henri had first returned, stepped through the gap, Cameron and Venable du Laq right behind him.
Heedless of protocol, Sophie picked up her skirts and practically sprinted to Cameron. “Are you all right?”
She looked him over frantically. No cuts in his clothing. No blood. But he was moving slowly. He reached out with his left arm and pulled her close to kiss her fiercely before he let her go.
“If you are done reassuring your wife, my lord,” Venable du Laq said, “then I suggest you let me do something about those ribs.”
Sophie’s heart lurched. “Your ribs? You are hurt!”
Cameron waved his left arm. “Bruising, nothing more.”
“Sanctii are strong,” the venable said. “It could be worse than that.”
“I’ve had a broken rib before. This doesn’t feel the same. Not that it doesn’t hurt, so if there is something you can do to ease it, Venable, I would be grateful,” he added.
“Call me Imogene. Both of you. This is no time to stand on ceremony.” She looked toward Aristides. “Perhaps we should continue this somewhere less public?”
The emperor shook his head. “No. No retreating.”
